


In Hell

by odelette_pyro



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2019-02-01 02:52:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12695679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/odelette_pyro/pseuds/odelette_pyro
Summary: Dean's first round in hell and the breaking of the seal





	In Hell

The thunder mingled with screams was loud, too loud. It made his stomach churn even more than the writhing of his body. A loud _clunk_ shattered his thoughts and he could feel his body being stretched to its limits, tearing a scream from him. After his moans quieted, he heard something talking to him. "Oh, it _is_ a pleasure to have a Winchester under my knife again. I missed the challenge." A figure appeared at the edge of Dean's vision, pure white eyes meeting his own. "It's a shame the old one had to go, we could have had a party together.” Each word stung after _old one_ , the realization of what exactly what was going on, how personal it was going to be hurt more the knife currently dancing down his chest. _Shit_ it hurt. It hurt in every muscle of his being even though it wasn’t supposed to, even though it disobeyed everything he had learned by feeling pain. But he wasn’t fighting a monster anymore, he was chained up in hell with a fire underneath him, gently roasting whatever flesh wasn’t being cut or peeled from his bones. 

He got used to the smell 

What he didn’t get used to was the pain. The slice and the dull thud of his body being removed from the rest of the body punctuating the slow drip, the ooze and splash and his blood that spread and mingled with others, just as his cries did. He called for his father, for Sam and sometimes a “Mom” would slip out, his voice cracking the most whenever he thought of her. But soon, his mind was so racked with pain he could not form words. The only sounds that left his mouth were raw, dry screams that would snap his vocals chords, leaving only dry air being pushed up from his lungs. He didn’t get used to his body awoken sore, but whole, white eyes staring into his soul and starting anew.

His stomach rebelled first, the bile climbing up his throat and burning what little bit of vocal chord remained. The nausea was constant and agonizing, a turmoil eventually spread to the rest of his body. When not being torn apart, any free limb would seize into a spasm, only increasing his misery. His body betrayed him by reaching for the knife, but he did not, he would not become among those who cut into him every day.

Sometimes things would get confused. The popping sound of the fire mingled with the popping of the separation of his joints, the screams of course, would mix until it was just one loud, anguished tone. The worst occurred when he went completely mad. He would see himself on the other side of the knife. His hand was the one carving up the poor, unrecognizable soul wrapped in chains. He was the one laughing, laughing, a cold, chilling sound over the piercing scream. And then he wasn’t. He was back on the chains, back over the fire. And he was okay with that.

The day it happened started out the same, with the thunder waking him and the scream keeping him awake. Strangely, there was no pain. Just a dull feeling, a cold spider that crawled up his back and numbed his spine, his neck, his brain. His whole body started to shake and he saw his hand reach for the knife Alastair dangled over his face. He felt his hand pass open the blade, slicing open his palm and coating the handle with blood as his fingers closed. The chains fell away and the cold spider locked onto the back of his neck, so much so that he couldn’t feel his body. And that was fine. When the switch was permanent, it was less confusing. When he caused the screams, all he had to do was think that these were demons, bad people, because why else would they be there? And when the blood dripped and the flesh thumped and the scream got louder it didn’t matter because it wasn’t him.

And he wasn’t the one who made so many turn into dark smoke or pick up the knife. He wasn’t the one who glowed under Alastair’s praise for being the most successful. He wasn’t the one who thought back on the horn and thought what it meant, why it sounded when he allowed his hand to encircle the handle. It wasn’t him who hoped for the sun, or a laugh, or fresh air that didn’t hold the stench of death. He wasn’t the one who cried when a ball of light reached down and touched him, the burn a good pain, the light a sweet release from the evil he had become.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry its so short! this is kind of a practice for me into some darker material. Please leave comments if you have any. Thanks!


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